


Sentimental

by Amaimomo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaimomo/pseuds/Amaimomo
Summary: Jack Morrison, former poster boy of Overwatch and lover of the feared Strike Commander Reyes, now leads a simple farm life. He's expecting to die old and happy with tons of grandchildren. All of his expectations are thrown out of the window when Jack is kidnapped by a strange man in a cloak and skull mask and yanked from his peaceful life.





	1. Apple Pie

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not the best at summaries. Anyways, let's get right to the point. Welcome to my fic! It is going to be dark and bloody and wonderful.   
> This fic is set in an AU, but it is all explained within the beginning of the fic. Thank you, I hope you like it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit; ON HIATUS. I will finish it, I do have plans for how I want this to go. I just can’t really put them down onto paper as well as I’d like.

Jack Morrison was an exceptional soldier. He was always well-received by his superiors; if his peers weren't admiring him they were covetous of him. 'If he was born a little earlier, if he had joined the SEP,' the higher-ups would say, 'he would've been the dream poster boy for Overwatch.' A golden aura of hair and an impressive physique, Jack was the angel that embellished Overwatch. His nickname in the ranks, and even to the public eye, was the 'Golden Child.' He wasn't much when he was drafted, a sawed-off farmer with a meagre muscle mass fit only from daily chores around his farmstead. He spoke with words fit for a clodhopper, albeit charismatic enough to charm the courier that spirited him away to the secret station of training for the Omnic crisis corps. 'I'm gonna fight the robots, 'ma. The mean ones, not like the one that helps with your groceries at the market.' He had explained to his weeping ma, the mother worried for her eldest son to experience the world in all its terror and greatness. 'My little hero, write every week!' He promised her he would.

Jack Morrison wasn't the most capable and able-bodied newbie in the ranks, but he surely showed enough determination and vigour, training tirelessly to better himself. Strength wasn't his forte, but his aim with the au courant pulse rifle was extraordinary. He quickly climbed to the top of his ranks, still a neophyte in the military. His quickly advancing skill caught the attention of Overwatch execs and one particular Strike Commander Reyes. Jack's heart was pounding as he personally met with the Strike Commander, each breath getting caught in the tightening channel of his dry throat. Tall, dark, and handsome were the perfect ways to describe Reyes. They hit it off easily enough, Jack admiring the sheer dominant strength radiating from Reyes, and Reyes covertly admiring the strong-willed cherub in return.

'I know you're sleeping with Strike Commander Reyes.' Genji Shimada had said to him whilst they were in the barracks. 'Do not think it will give you an advantage over the rest of us.' Jack Morrison hadn't been phased. He sat upright, brushed off his uniform and stated, 'I know you're sleeping with the doctor. I guess we both have secrets.' That had quieted the Japanese man, and they both continued on their own ways. Jesse McCree was an easier friend to make than the cyborg, being a farm-raised all-American himself. Yet, unlike Jack, Jesse had diverged from the path of ethicality in his youth. Nevertheless, Jesse was still a part of Overwatch, just like Jack. Both Genji and Jesse shared something in common that Jack would never be able to revel in- Blackwatch. They could be close to Strike Commander Reyes in a way Jack could not, seeing as to how the Strike Commander also lead the deadly operation in secrecy. Yet, they would never taste Reyes like Jack did.

Their affair wasn't lasting, a parable spoke before of momentary lovers trapped within a wartime tragedy. The Omnics had been defeated, Overwatch was praised worldwide. Jack Morrison was given a choice- he could stay in Overwatch and help the world regrow, help to build cordial relations with the Omnics that hadn't revolted. He would be put through the SEP, he would become stronger and better. He could become Strike Commander Morrison, a renowned hero for all of mankind. Or, he could return back to his lacklustre life on his family farmstead. His mother cried when she greeted him at the airport.

'Keep in contact, you hear?' Jesse McCree said to him before Jack left, swinging one massive arm around Jack's shoulders, the newly-built robotic arm ruffling up his blonde locks. He promised. Genji Shimada had disappeared some fateful night before, leaving many confused friends and one heartbroken lass. 'Where is Reyes?' Jack had asked McCree, trying his best to appear as nonchalant as he could. The Strike Commander was in a rather important meeting. Jack had to catch a plane. He couldn't say goodbye.

Jack Morrison was the star of his community, being recognized by everyone wherever he went. 'Thank you,' the Omnic that helped his mother with the groceries said one day. 'For putting a stop to those ne'er-do-wells. They gave Omnics everywhere a bad name.' Jack felt a sense of pride in that statement spoken to him by the Omnic, and he knew he had done the world right. There were still maleficent Omnics in the world, same as there were maleficent humans. The world would never truly be cleansed of all evil, but Jack could confidently say he had left Overwatch in a better world than he had entered in. He returned home, carrying all his grocery bags inside at once because two trips were for babies. He was greeted by his family, a 'ma and a 'pa and four sisters and two brothers and three dogs and a cat. Dinner was a terrific roast with a side of mashed potatoes and cooked carrots and asparagus. Homemade sticky toffee pudding was for dessert. Jack realized, as he wolfed down his servings, how much he had missed simple life like this. Being a war hero wasn't the right life for him, although it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience he was glad he took part in. He would inherit the farm and marry a pretty girl and have lots of babies. He would put the Omnic crisis behind him, no matter how often the nightmares startled him awake in a cold sweat. He would have a normal, happy life.

Nothing would've prepared him for the terrible news of the bombing of the main Overwatch facility. Gabriel Reyes, the famed Strike Commander of Overwatch, was dead. Jack cried himself to sleep when he heard that news, hiding his anguish from his family. There had been rumours before, naturally, but they only grew tenfold. Had the people forgotten who had saved them from an Omnic cataclysm, or were they just daft? In the same breath as he has reigned a hero in his town he became a villain, someone to gossip about in idle whispers and stared at in heavy silence as he walked by. 'He could be dangerous,' they said. 'Haven't you heard the rumours of Overwatch? What about Blackwatch?' Blackwatch. His chest tightened. A nameless face floated in his memories, dark skin and scraggly beard, kisses in the dark that tasted of cinnamon and copper. He pushed it away, forcing down the swell of emotions within him. He mourned over the gradual extinction of Overwatch, but he had put that part of his life behind him. It was time to move on.

\--

Ten years had passed. The rumours eventually passed and the people forgot about him. Jack Morrison continued to work on the family farmstead. Most of his siblings moved away for college, yearning for a life outside of their boring town. One of his dogs died, and they got a new horse. He had met a girl, large-breasted and blonde-haired, the daughter to the owner of the local cattle ranch. His appearance had stayed remotely the same- still possessing dashing chiselled features, he had sprouted a few stress greys that weren't easily noticed in his golden locks. His life was secure, albeit insipid. He had heard no tales of Overwatch, of any fussy Omnics, of any war. Sometimes, as he sat alone, his mind would wander. Wander to days of glory long ago, days of glory he left behind for this simple life. What would he be doing now, if he had decided not to part with Overwatch after the main turmoil of the war? Would he be a lone mercenary, or worse, dead? Would he be laying in bed with Strike Commander Reyes, or would Jack himself be Strike Commander?

"Jack, the weeds aren't gonna pull themselves!" His mother calls, forcing Jack out of his castle in the air.

"Yes, 'ma!" Jack sits upright where he had been kneeling in the soil of their flower garden. "Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts." While he had been working abroad he had lost his yokel slur.

Jack continues plucking at the dandelions, haphazardly tossing them into a steel bucket. He's wearing dirty old gloves and unfastened suspenders. There's a trail of dirt on his cheek. The sun is dipping into the horizon, casting visible waves of heat to dance on the vista. There's a warm orange glow on everything in the suns sights, and anything hidden is dark and cold. The day had been blistering, and Jack's becoming much too groggy in the fading sunlight. It's a dry heat, and it makes Jack's skin burn and his throat parch.

"What were you dreaming of, boy?" His mother questions, perching behind Jack in the way mothers do.

"I think I should start working out again." He responds.

His mother laughs. "Working on the farm not good enough for you?"

"No!" Jack whines childishly, showing an innocence he could only ever unfold in the presence of his mother. "Look at how squishy I'm becoming." Jack stands and pulls the short sleeve of his begrimed shirt up to his shoulder, flexing for his mother. It's true- he has grown quite soft since his days fighting robots. "You feed me too good, 'ma."

She laughs with a wave of her arm, easily brushing off his compliments. "Well if you are so eager to, then I won't stop you. Anyways, I think it is time to go inside. It's too hot and it's becoming dark. I've made fresh lemonade."

They enter the house together, and Jack has some of the lemonade. Delicious and refreshing. When the sun disappears wholly and leaves the house in a darkened state, Jack retreats to his bedroom. Second floor, the last door to the right. It's the same room he's had since he was a kid, but the aesthetics of the room have been altered greatly. As he is changing from his work clothes, a sudden noise erupts within his room. It is muffled, but loud enough to be immediately noticed by Jack. It is a familiar sound, and the idea frightens him. Shirtless and with his suspenders hanging off his hips, Jack stumbles to the general area in which the sound is coming from. He kneels beside his bed, pushing away stuffed animals and water bottles and other strange trinkets. The sound had become louder. Finally, he comes upon a box. He pulls out the box and removes the lid, staring down at the old Overwatch paraphernalia. He has no time to reminisce; he pulls out an Overwatch grade tablet of sorts. It was used for business kinds of stuff whilst Jack was still in Overwatch (most people under the rank of commander used it for entertainment), but now it was only used for recall.

Recall.

Jack silences the tablet and slams the lid onto the box, shoving it under his bed once more.

A week had passed since Jack found the tablet and he has forgotten about the item, his mind too preoccupied with his daily chores. It's barely morning, and Jack is lying awake in his bed, his mind dancing with too many thoughts that prevent him from sleeping. The sun has not yet graced the world of the living, instead the dark sky leaving an azure dusting over the land, the moon barely dipping to the horizon. The sky adjacent to the moon, opposite from Jack's own bedroom window, had started to tinge pink in foreshadowing to the coming dawn.

Jack rolls from his side onto his back, lazily slinging an arm over his sweaty forehead. The air in the room is muggy and tastes stale, typical conditions from a sleepless night. He stares at the ceiling above him, still frivolously adorned with glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. A dark pink tongue darts out behind thin lips, absentmindedly wetting them before retreating back into his mouth. His lips immediately become uncomfortably dry once more. Finally, unable to stand another minute in his lackadaisical fog, Jack unceremoniously kicks the light blanket off of his body and slumps out of bed.

Stepping out of his bedroom and into the dark hallway, a feeling of uncertainty spreads over Jack. He surely isn't afraid of the dark, not an adult man like himself, but something about the halls that seemed to go into a forever blackness unnerved him. 'I'm just tired, he thinks to himself, I just need coffee.' Jack goes downstairs into the kitchen, subconsciously stepping on light toes. Outside of his home, he can hear the screech of an owl still hunting in the comfort of the moon. The living room feels chilly as he walks through it, but it is a welcome contrast to the groggy heat he had felt previously in bed. It's refreshing, a nipping sting on his tongue whenever he takes a breath in. I forgot to close the window, he thinks. The linoleum floor of the kitchen is a startling sensation on his bare feet, but he carefully welcomes it. The setting moon glares into the dinette window, bestowing an icy light that only amplifies the chilling atmosphere of the morning. Being cold is an understatement, though, for Jack is still sweating through his tank top. He readies the coffee maker with a fresh brew of beans and relaxes against the kitchen table, waiting for the beverage to steep. The dull cockcrow silence is broken only by the hissing and spitting of the machine. Jack yawns widely and his head bobs.

"Stay awake, soldier."

Jack jumps with a start, twisting on his feet so suddenly he might've fallen over if he hadn't been steadied against the table. Standing on the opposite end of the table is a looming stygian figure, too tall and too wide, cloaked in a thick blackness. Where a face should've been, instead there was a mask. White like bone, chilling like frostbite, it reminded Jack of the Grim Reaper.

Jack acts quickly, sprinting to the side of the table closest to the doorway to the living room. He has a gun in his closet, just in case, and there are tools in the shed if he can't make it upstairs. He is surprisingly calm for the first attack in over a century. It was going to happen someday, what with Jack being a former formidable member of Overwatch. Having it be done by a clown was rather insulting, though.

The dark cloaked figure makes it to the door before Jack, moving all too quickly and too fluidly. The shadows cling to the form of the man, desperately crying for his return to their arms. Jack is too focused on fleeing to notice that his mental metaphors weren't that far from the truth, that shadows oozed from the figure like ink and danced like smoke.

"We have no time for games." A gravelly voice speaks out, strange and inhuman yet eerily familiar to Jack.

Before Jack is able to respond, to spin away and send a flying fist right into the throat of the man, the butt end of a shotgun cracks him right in the temple and he tumbles to the floor like a rag doll.


	2. Whitewater

Jack Morrison wakes with a gasp, followed by a groan of pain, as he tries to quickly hoist himself up only to be hit by a wave of discomfort. He places a free hand on his head, where he feels the bulging ache of a goose egg forming on his temple. It is tentative to the touch and he lowers his hand. He's still dressed in his pyjamas- a white tank top and fleece bottoms. Quickly taking in his surroundings, Jack is unsure of where he currently resides. It's a dingy place, the dim light of day filtering in through a foggy cracked window to reveal the components of the bedroom-sized house. A kitchenette with mouldy cupboards that are desperately clinging to their hinges, a tiny circular table with a tiny radio and an unlit lamp, a single chair, a sofa that seemed infected, and the limp mattress on the floor that Jack was perched upon. The mattress has suspicious stains of copper and yellow. The wooden walls sported shelves of cans and binoculars and papers and guns. One shelf had fallen to the ground, spilling a tin of nails, a hammer, and some parchment. There is no flooring on the dirt ground.

After taking in his surroundings, Jack stills and tilts his head to be able to better listen to the environment around him. There is nothing to be heard but silence; no whirring cars, no buzz of machinery. Only the sad song of a lone bird.

Jack tries to recall his past memories, but the events that happened prior to this napping are as vivid as a dream long since dreamt. He massages through his hair, ruffling up the already bad bed head. His hand runs over the bruised bump and he hisses, yanking his hand back. Rising to his feet, Jack decides to do a little exploration. The ground is cold and spongy under his bare feet. Whoever brought him here surely wasn't here any longer, but they ought to come back in due time. He has to act fast. Taking a tentative step forward, Jack found himself to be experiencing sort-of vertigo. The world careens around him, and he stumbles for a moment before finding proper footing against the wall. The wood feels pulpy under his fingertips and he wonders if it would crumble if he presses his entire body weight against it. He hobbles against the wall in search of a door to the outside world.

Jack finds it, albeit fortuitously as he presses too heavily against a certain section of the wall and the door falls open on creaky hinges.

"That solves that." Jack mutters, finding the presence of a voice, even his own dry and cracking voice, pleasant.

A chill envelops Jack as he takes in the outdoor sights. Trees, trees, and even more trees. He's in the middle of a woods. Turning back to glare into the cabin, he believes he's in a hunters hovel.

Scratching his chin, where a slight accumulation of much-too-blonde stubble has grown, Jack ponders over his current options. 'If you're ever in a situation where you're by yourself,' Jack remembers his old captain saying to his squadron, 'talk to yourself. It might not seem like much, but it definitely helps to calm you down.'

'That's stupid.' Jack thinks. 'I can hear my voice in my head, that's plenty enough.'

He's been standing in the doorway for much too long and a chill has overcome him. Jack walks out into the sun and immediately feels the warmth spread over him. He has no idea where he is, though it's evident he's in a forest of sorts. No humanity to be found, save for the hut. He knows he must find a river. Pioneers always settled on river beds. Jack looks this way and that, trying to pinpoint which way he should head first. Like the flip of a coin, Jack impetuously heads to his right into the thick of the brush. Weaving through the woods is easy enough for Jack, pushing past low-hanging branches and stepping over decaying logs. His arms get scratched by twigs and leaves, his feet stuck with whatever oddities may lay in the dirt. He prays he doesn't step in an anthill. Jack hates bugs. By the position of the sun in the sky, Jack can assume that it isn't much past noon. The thick canopy of leaves above him protects him from the glare of the sun, but once again he feels cold. He rubs his forearms idly, goosebumps rising on his flesh. Jack is strangely calm, but he has been through worse events than this. He knows how to survive in the wilderness. He'll be okay. He just wishes he could contact his family. 'Hey, I'm fine, I was just kidnapped- adultnapped, I guess- so I'll be home at dinner time. Make sure to pick the weeds, thanks!' Jack shakes his head, his lips twitching up into a grin. His mom would lose her shit. The silence around him is comforting. It reminds him of serene nights spent camping with his father, talking about the constellations and old myths. Jacks favourite is the one in which the monks that lit themselves on fire. His father assured him that it was true, but there is no way an average human could survive that willingly.

The silence is broken by a sudden takeoff of birds, each shrilling as they flee from whatever startled them. Their wordless cries echo through the reticent coppice. It stills Jack and he turns over his shoulder, peering through the thick growth folding in around him. Usnea hangs from trees, making the woody skeletons look more maleficent than they actually are. Jack dwells in the silence for a moment too long, his heartbeat against his ribcage the loudest sound in his ears.

"Jack!" A voice roared.

Jack is quick to put the key in the ignition and book it out of there. He pivots and breaks into a sprint, tearing down tendrils of the tree branches as he barrels through the woods. He should stop, he should hide. But, like an animal being stalked by a predator, he feels the ultimate need to flee. Jack doesn't notice the creek till he breaches the tree line, stumbling into a rocky dell. His feet still planted in hard dirt, Jack looks up and down the stream. It's tiny, but Jack knows it'll lead to something bigger. It has to.

He moves to approach the brook, but he is stopped by something belting into him. Jack plummets, his body slamming against the adamantine ground beneath. His instincts immediately kick in and Jack becomes a flurry of fists and feet, haphazardly hitting the something on top of him. The man (Jack knew it was a man. An animal would've ripped him to shreds already, slobbering with teeth unchecked) fights back, an impervious hand forcing Jack's face into the soil. Clawed fingertips dig into his skull, but Jack heeds them no mind. Heavy weight sets on his bottom, two thick thighs press his own together and successfully keep his legs entrapped.

"Get off!" Jack bellows, his voice dissonant from the disuse of his dry throat. His cries only prompt the man to press his face more forcefully against the solid ground. He can feel gravel digging into his face, sticking to the blood and clambering into his open wound.

"You need to learn your lesson." A voice says, deep and bitter and guttural.

A firm torso presses onto Jack's back, bearing him down securely against the earth. Jack grunts, flails, but his motions are futile. A clawed hand is there, on his backside, pushing underneath the elastic waist of his fleece trousers. Confusion and fear strike Jack in succession and he moves helplessly as his bare ass is revealed to the world.

"You go commando? Are you a pervert?" The words bite him, digging into his skin and attaching to the most self-conscious bits of Jack that he wants, needs, to suppress.

Jack is unable to muster up a response, and the man continues his ministrations. There is a slight pause, and a clawed glove lands next to Jack's face. Before he can understand the consequences of this action, a finger forces itself into his entrance. His breath hitches softly and Jack fights with his ability to stay silent. It burns and it is unpleasant, but it is what Jack knows is coming that summons a cold sweat to break out across his flesh. Jack hadn't been touched down there since Gabriel. Sure, he'd jacked off in the last ten years, but never did anything delve into the deepest parts of him. He couldn't; it reminded him too much of Gabriel.

"Don't." Jack growls, keeping his voice minutes away from a cry or a plea. He will not give this man the satisfaction. He will not be humiliated.

A second and third finger are thrust within Jack in succession, hardly working away the stinging of his rim. The fingers work lazily, not really caring about loosening up Jack at all. They pull out abruptly, and Jack hisses at the torrid ache of his asshole.

The lone hand holding his head down flees, and Jack is finally able to hold his head up and peer behind. Dark cybernetic armour and a dark cloak. Someone obviously had a niche sense of fashion. Jack's eyes trail over the figure, recognizing him as the one who assaulted him last night. The man is big and muscular, his arms practically bulging out of their confines. Jack can see skin beneath the sleeves of the cloak, an inhuman shade of grey. His eyes make it to the top, staring into the ever-open ever-empty orbs of darkness within the bone-white mask. It's staring at him, Jack thinks, but he cannot tell for sure. It's sucking him in, black soulless eyes, void of life. Movement below cause Jack's eyes to snap downwards, focusing on the unbuckling belt.

"No." He attempts to croak out, but his voice abandons him.

Heavy weight unleashed, the thick cock breaches the cold valley air. The head is dark and angry, throbbing veins on the shaft mock Jack. Its size is indisputable, as inhumane as the rest of the barbaric man. Length and width, it is a monster. Without a second thought, it is shoved deep within Jack.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Jack screams. His feet scrabble for purchase against the stone and soil below, powerless to grab hold of anything secure. He writhes helplessly, tears brimming in his squinted eyes. Legs bucking and knees bent, he desperately tries to pull his ass away. His free hands reach out, grasping onto rock and grime and plant and anything that he could try and pull himself free with.

"Stop flailing." The man barks, grabbing Jack by his waist and thrusting into him. A groan falls from Jacks cracked lips. The hands flip him over onto his side, forcing Jack's leg on top of a broad shoulder no matter how hard he tries to yank away. The grip on his ankle is bruising. The dark man straddles the other leg, sitting on the appendage and keeping it glued to the ground. Now, he is easily able to gyrate his hips and slam into Jack's opening.

Jack's fingers dig into forgiving soil, staring out to the horizon in which the river disappears into. The gentle bubbling of the water falls on deaf ears. His entrance is warm and moist, but not from any sort of lubricant. Jack can picture the blood staining his thighs, an erotic picturesque display. Shame is heavy on his shoulders.

Another thrust causes Jack to wail softly, a throbbing pain travelling up his spine. The pace becomes faster, harder, each deep assault jerking Jack's body to and fro, scratching his cheek against the pebbles and marring the smooth skin of his bare thighs and shoulders. Jack has given up the fight, already pushed to the point of exhaustion. Or is it the humiliation? Either or, Jack has ceased all attempts to free himself from the grasp of his captor. Ignoring the sound of balls slapping against his ass, the sound of muffled grunts above him, the sticky sound of blood flowing in and out of him, Jack instead focuses on the way the river careens around large rocks, pooling and falling back to create a vicious cycle of fast flowing water. Rapids, trying to escape the loop they have been trapped in. Unlike Jack.

"Look." Growls a voice above him. A hand grabs Jacks face then, twisting his neck in a harsh and unpleasant way to peer down his body. He's forced to watch masculine hips pummel against him, an intimidating length disappear inside Jack's walls again and again. The pain had subsided while Jack was distracted, but staring down at the ministrations makes it painful all over again.

Jacks breath hitches and he feels like he is going to be sick on the riverbed. It is only then that he notices how empty his stomach is.

A failed attempt to yank his head back results in a hand digging into his scalp, pulling short blonde strands taut.

"Look at what a little bitch you are."

Jack opens his mouth to speak but no words come out.

"Have you always been a filthy cunt? Giving yourself up to anyone as long as they asked nicely?"

Jack tries to shake his head but the man is holding firm.

"The 'Golden Child' of Overwatch- hah! More like the bitch of Overwatch. What good did Overwatch do to you, you can't even fight back against one man!" He's laughing now, laughing as he erratically fucks Jack. It's unpleasant, like nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to use you as I please."

"Fuck you!" Jack spits ravenously, wrenching his caught leg back with an alarming burst of strength and slamming it back into the man's chest. The surprise and the strength are enough to dislodge the two men, sending the cloaked man toppling over and giving Jack enough time to scramble away. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he stumbles to his feet, rendering Jack numb to the ache of his rump. He bounds across the rocky riverbed, aiming to get himself into the water.

Jack makes it to the edge of the shore when he is tackled once again; he is given no time to react before his head is forced under the harsh current of the river. He struggles, snatching a rock and desperately barraging it against whatever he could. Unable to see what is happening above the water, the only thing to warn him of the sudden blow is a hand on his own flailing wrist. The hand jerks, almost too easily snapping Jack's wrist. He screams and water fills his mouth and throat, fluently choking him. Jack is struggling for a whole new reason now, desperately grasping at what is holding him underwater. It fills his nose, burning his nasal cavity and flooding his esophagus. He opens his eyes, fighting against the sting. His lungs are burning now- he can't breathe-

The last thing Jack is aware of before he loses consciousness is his empty hole being filled once again.


	3. Breezeblocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. School really sucks.

Jack Morrison comes to with an incredible ache overtaking his entire body, a substantial weight of anguish seeping from a focal point on his backside. His vision is blurred as he attempts to blink away the lethargy. Limbs permeated with metaphorical lead, Jack fails to rise several times; he instead decides to continue laying upon his very uncomfortable mattress, oozing a stench of rot- When did his bedroom gain this stink?

Jack snaps upwards regrettably, reeling in his own discomfort as stars flash in his vision and nausea rises in his gut. A rattling and an unpleasant weight settles around his neck remind Jack of his current situation. He's back in the hunting squat, but this time he is attached to a cinderblock through chain and collar suited for a large hound. He curses under his breath, slams his fist against the callous mattress. Escape is an egregious fantasy; he would have to lift the cinderblock and waddle through the brush once more, trodden heavy with the weight of the concrete slab. It's a death sentence, or whatever his captor would do to him if he found Jack escaped again.

Thankfully, Jack is still wearing his scantly covering clothes, though the knees of his fleece pants are torn. Jack picks at the scabbed skin there, flicking away little bits of rubble. His body is bruised here and there, delicate pink scratches painting his body. The results of his previous escape attempt ache on his backside, reminding him of the battle he lost. Shame crosses his features, and for a moment Jack curls up within himself, his ass throbbing and his heart pounding.

The moment of self-benevolence is interrupted by the darkly cloaked man himself barging into the hut. He's scrapped his cloak, but his animalistic bone mask remains stout on his face. In his hands, he possesses a heap of wood. He stops still in the doorway when he sees Jack. A maladroit moment passes between the two of them, silence heavy as a wool blanket.

As much as he wants to, Jack knows hissing and spitting won't get him anywhere. He's trapped- a hostage. If he wants to survive and thrive, he must not tarnish his already sour reputation with his twisted captor.

Fortuitously, the man speaks first.

"It will get colder. You were shivering all night." He places the slabs of wood into the old-fashioned stove in the kitchenette.

'No shit I was cold.' Jack thinks maliciously. 'You brought me to the woods, raped me, and then left me in a hut in my jammies.'

Instead, he says, all while biting the inside of his cheek, "Thank you." His body aches just looking at the impending man before him. He opens and closes his mouth several times like a fish out of water before he carefully sorts out each of his words. "Why am I here?"

"You don't need to know that yet." Is the response, the man not turning to him as he attempts to kindle the fire.

Each passing moment is making Jack become more and more aggressive. He's been tortured before (war is torture, after all) and he survived that. But being raped- raped, Jack Morrison was raped. He can't believe it- is on a whole other level. Jack can take physical pain any day. What happened the day prior was humiliating. Jack knew a girl back home who was raped. She was scarred, never the same could hardly look any man in the eye for months. Jack's different, he's had military training. He can handle this. He has to.

The internal dialogue calms his fried senses enough to be able to respond. "Then, can you at least tell me where we are? And who you are?" He speaks through a clenched jaw.

The response is immediate. "We're in Colorado. Not for long, hopefully." Jack hears the crackling of an infant flame, and he feels comfort knowing there is a heat source nearby. The heat distracts him from the disturbing thoughts that keep clawing back into his skull. "As for who I am-" the figure finally turns to look at Jack, standing tall and broad. "I am death."

Jack quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head forward. Okay, he's been kidnapped by a madman.

"You will call me Reaper."

"Okay, Reaper," Jack says reluctantly. Before his mouth can shut and block off his train of thought, Jack snaps, "Why did you fuckin' rape me?"

The silence returns, and so does the trepidation in the pit of Jack's stomach. He knows that his fear is irrational. He knows that his degradation of being raped is aberrant for a soldier like himself.

But Jack hasn't been a soldier for ten years, and Jack is afraid.

Heavy footsteps announce that Reaper is approaching Jack. He stops mere centimetres in front of Jack, towering over the ex-soldier.

"To teach you a lesson." Growls Reaper, his voice teetering on the edge of sickly and abyssal.

Those words are too powerful, and the fearful chords they strike within Jack remind him of a death knoll. His own cowardice is shameful, but he cannot deny the trembling of his fingers.

"What?" He croaks out, throat too tight and tongue too heavy.

"You must've noticed the position you are in, have you not?" Reaper asks, pacing the dirty floor (if it could even be considered a floor) in front of Jack. "I hold all the cards. I'm in control of this game. I am the cat, you are the mouse. But do not fear, mouse, I have no intention of eating you. I just want to play."

Jack can hear the inkling of a smile behind the twisted mask.

  
Jack is left alone for most of the day, peace not overtaking him. Held down by a cinderblock, he had no way of moving comfortably. He couldn't risk it, not with the constant threat of the Reaper looming over him like a shadow. There was nothing he could do save for lay in wait. He heard songs in the woodlands, chattering of squirrels scurrying through the underbrush on the constant quest for food, storage for the winter that is hardly nigh. He could appreciate the calling of the fowls, blessing his ear with talk of the outside world. 'Your mother, she doesn't miss you. She's too busy.' One would say. 'Bollocks, you fool, she's worried sick about him. She's called the police and has the tele near.' Another would argue. The band continued for some time, singsong voices carrying notes from the proper world to where Jack laid all but dormant.

As the sun begins to set behind the thick leafy foliage the conversations Jack's been eavesdropping on change and distort. Birds sleep, critters burrow. An owl hoots lowly, it's wisdom too high calibre for a human such as Jack. Bugs trill and Jack becomes uncomfortable. He hates bugs, the epitome of savagery. His brother forced him to eat a bug when they were children.

Eat, Jack would love to eat. Anything but a bug.

His prayers are answered by the ever knowledgeable owl as Reaper returns from his hourly long absence. Where he had gone, Jack does not know nor care to know. All he can focus on is the fast food bag clutched by the man in black. He stares at it, giving no notice to Reaper.

"I've brought food," Reaper speaks, moving towards Jack. Jack has been positioned on the bed all day, and his legs itch for exercise.

Jack's eyes follow his starvation saviour, watches as Reaper squats and takes out a wrapped burger from a local burger joint. The image of Reaper politely waiting in line to order almost makes Jack laugh. Almost. He knows the chances of Reaper politely waiting are slim to none, but it is a funny image.

Reaper holds out the burger for Jack, and Jack moves to grab it. Reaper snatches the burger away at the last moment.

"Ah, ah, ah-" He says, wagging a finger. "Open your mouth like a good boy."

Jack stops, shoots a glare up into the empty sockets in the barren mask. As desperately as he wants to argue, to yell, to fight, he does not. He obeys. He is hungry. Shamefully, he opens his mouth. Reaper leads the burger to his waiting maw and allows Jack to sink his teeth in. It is delicious, and Jack nearly wolfs it down. In his haste to eat, he nearly bites one of Reaper's fingers. Reaper seems to be enjoying himself nonetheless. When he is finished he leans back, almost satisfied.

"Where are your manners?" Reaper scolds as he rises.

"Shit a brick." Jack growls out, looking away from Reaper, his eyes dancing on the wall, tracing visual patterns in the wooden slats as he had been doing all day.

Reaper hums, and stands, and goes off to do whatever the fuck he does. But, he doesn't leave the hut. He falls back onto the couch, arms and legs spread wide, and stares at Jack. Jack quirks an eyebrow, but he pays him no heed and lays down, his back to Reaper.

That is, till a burning itch enlightens his gut, spreading down to his toes and through his fingertips. It settles in his groin, his aching asshole. It's hot- it's burning. Jack begins to shift uncomfortably, squirming on the mattress to get some sort of relief. Relief never comes. His body is too hot, and sweat starts pooling in the connections of his limbs. His breath comes out in steady puffs that would fog the glass window had it not been summer and still so warm outside. Jack is smart enough to know what has happened to him. He was tricked by the Reaper. His cock has grown hard, tenting in his pyjama pants. The sweat sheen on his skin cools, and Jack's head feels suddenly too full as if cotton had been shoved into his ears. His hands, unbeknownst to Jack, move to his groin against his will.

"If you touch yourself I will cut off both your hands."

Jack jerks with a start. His head whips around, dilated pupils focusing in on the likely culprit. "What did you do to me?!"

Reaper crosses his arms, crosses one leg over another. "Well, I gave you medicine, of course. You were sick, and so hungry you didn't even notice it."

Jack starts breathing heavily, and the hot burning of arousal in his gut is replaced by a cold fear.

"I won't touch you, though." Reaper raises his hands defensively. "I don't want to rape you again."

"You sick fuck." Jack shouts, still uselessly squirming on the bed. He will not cave in, he will deal with this game and Reaper won't get what he wants.

Easier said than done, as each passing moment leaves Jack more and more dishevelled, panting and gasping as his cock throbs and leaks, leaving a noticeable spot on his pants. He groans, digging his fingers into the decrepit mattress till his knuckles turn white.

"F-Fuck!" Jack gasps, legs trembling shut to hide the erotic sight from his own needy eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are moist with tears.

He can't take it anymore. His body acts against him as he turns to peer at Reaper. He opens his mouth, licks his lips, but no words come out. Reaper is staring at him, Jack knows this even if he cannot see his eyes beneath the damned mask. Jack tries to glare, but he only has a sense of how menacing he must look- which is, to say the least, not at all. His brows pinch upwards in his desperately unpleasant state of arousal, his mouth hangs open and his tongue runs over dry lips. But, again, his pride and ego start slandering him. How can he so easily fall into the trap laid out for him by this sadistic man? He was so hungry, he couldn't even think of any precautions?

"Fuck you!" Jack spits, saliva dripping down the hem of his mouth. He squeezes his legs shut, legs locking painfully around the Reaper's hips. "You gave me an aphrodisiac!"

Reaper hums, the sound deep and twisted, and Jack wants to throttle him to death. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

Jack stubbornly shakes his head, flipping onto his belly on the mattress, his head turned away from Reaper. The pressure on his length pressed between his stomach and the bedding is nearly painful, and it reminds Jack all the more of how aroused he actually is. His hips wiggle against his free will, attempting to find any sort of relief. His hands dance over the thin sheet, fisting the fabric between his fingers till his knuckles turn white. His vision darkens, a vignette in the corners of his field of view.

Jack groans, and glances over his shoulder at Reaper. The monster stares back at him. Jack's groin hurts, his stomach is fluttering with butterflies. He's too hot, burning all over. "Please." He croons.

Reaper rises calmly and approaches the quivering heap of arousal on the mattress. Staring down for a moment too long, Jack feels as if he is on some sort of sickening display. But, the moment is haste, and Reaper lowers himself onto Jack's body. He flips him onto his back once more and easily settles between Jack's legs, forcing them apart from their vice grip glued together.

"Please what?" Reaper edges him onwards, the pads of his gloved thumbs rubbing gentle circles into Jack's kneecaps.

Silence overcomes Jack, his eyes dancing over the bland and ever the same expression of the Reaper. It's impossible to read him, but Jack tries anyways. He doesn't want to respond, doesn't want to keep playing into this stupid game any longer. Alas, he is longing for release, desperate to free himself from the agony of his heightened libido.

"Get me off." Jack finally succumbs and growls out a harsh command, his hands tangling in his own blond locks and shielding his face from any more shame.

Reaper hums. With his arms over his face, Jack cannot see Reaper. He hears movement, and then silence. Something is placed on his arms, pushing them out of the way to replace them in guarding Jack's face. Although his eyes are open, he cannot see. The material is hard and cold. It smells like cinnamon and cracked pepper, yet underneath those pleasant scents, it smells like blood, like death. Jack guesses that the mask of Reaper's has been placed over his own face, skewed so that Jack wouldn't be able to peer through the eye holes. But why? Why would Reaper need to remove his own mask to shield Jack-

Jack's pants are ripped off of him and his throbbing length is engulfed by a warm and wet cavern.

"Oh, fuck!" Jack shouts, his hips bucking up into the welcoming heat. The mouth around him is surprisingly humanoid, a tongue lapping the underside of his cock, not-so-tentative teeth teasing the sensitive flesh.

Reaper plays with him, then, sucking him deep and then pulling off, watching the cold air makes Jack shiver. Reaper laps at the tip, sucking on the sensitive head and then swallows the length once more.

Jack is surprised at how oversensitive his whole body feels, but he presumes that is what an aphrodisiac does to someone. His balls are already throbbing, much too early for Jack's usual sex drive.

The free hand that isn't holding the mask in place edges downwards as Reaper sucks Jack off, caressing Jack's prominent abs, his hips, and finally cupping an ass cheek. A finger slips into the valley of his crack, a sharp nail teasing the still delicate rim of his hole. It doesn't slip in, merely massages the outer edges with teasing strokes and prods.

Jack comes undone easily, reaching his climax without little to no warning. He wails as he fills Reapers mouth. The man spits in disgust, and Jack can feel his own seed splatter on his belly, remnants trailing down the side of his still erect length.

Jack nearly sobs when satisfaction doesn't come; when his cock stands straight at attention.

"It doesn't seem that you're finished yet, Jack." Reaper muses, yanking Jack backward by his hips. Jack can feel Reaper's own bulge grinding against him.

Jack hiccups and tugs on the chain holding him fast to the cinderblock, as if he would be able to free himself from his confinement.


	4. Hegira

Jack Morrison cannot tell one from two. Has it been hours? It’s felt like it’s been days. Maybe only several minutes have passed. He heard a car. Or was that the stream? Even after his own cock deflated, the effects of the aphrodisiac having worn off, the Reaper continued to pound into Jack’s hole mercilessly. Jack feels raw and open and sloppy. He aches and he hurts and he stings, laying amidst sweat and grime and other bodily fluids. The two damp bodies remain on the thin mattress, but they haven’t always. Reaper had removed the chains from Jack’s neck so they could fuck on the table, on the couch, and wherever they pleased. Reaper hadn’t put them back on. They’ve had no pauses to allow either of them a chance to breathe; Reaper’s stamina astounds Jack. But Jack isn’t like Reaper. Jack is tired and thirsty and sore and he needs to pee but he is still chained and pinned and they are still going. Despite what Jack desires- what Jack needs- the Reaper continues fucking him, staring down at him with that damn stone cold mask. The mask is laughing at him, opening its dead maw with a chuckling creak. Jack is hallucinating, drawn to insanity from staring into the dead eyes of the beast. He nearly laughs at himself, but his throat is too parched. His clothes have been removed, and he is too sweaty to feel cold.

“Please.” Jack chokes out after a particularly hard thrust. “Stop. I can’t keep going.”

Reaper doesn’t halter. His clawless fingers grip tighter into Jack’s hips. Somewhere amidst their arousing dance, Reaper had removed his gauntlets and his gloves, revealing to Jack more of the monstrous greying skin. Inhuman. Alien. Monster. Demon.

Without a response, Jack is prompted to continue. “I’m really thirsty, please! I need water.” Jack hopes his parched throat sounds as dry as it feels. Every thrust makes his voice jump.

A particularly hard jab and Jack yelps, “Please!”

With a growl, Reaper yanks himself out of Jack’s hole. Jack hisses at the sudden loss of contact as the cold air tickles his rim. He feels open and used, Reapers seed leaking down his crack. Reaper crawls up to Jacks' head and forces his face against Reapers still erect length, rubbing it on his cheek even as Jack attempts to pull away. Finally, Reapers cock breaches past Jacks sealed lips. Jack let’s out a sound of disgust.

“Drink up.” Reaper mocks him.

He finishes quickly inside the wet cavern, chuckling in amusement as Jack writhes beneath him, desperately trying to pull back as his throat and mouth are filled with a wave of spunk.

Reaper finally pulls off of him and Jack spits out the semen filling his mouth, coughing and gagging. Jack swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and glares at the large form of Reaper as he fits himself back into his pants. With his back turned from Jack, he goes to the kitchenette.

With what little time he assumes he has, Jack quickly looks around the small cabin. He won’t be able to make it to the door on time- Reaper is much too fast. He can’t hide, that would just be stupid. He needs a weapon.

The sound of something oozing from the tap is not a comforting sound to Jack.

Jack’s eyes, quickly surveying the room, land on the broken shelf and the nails on the ground. The shelf is too big to hide, and if he tries to attack Reaper now he would be heard. His final solution is the nails. He slowly snakes to the edge of the mattress, reaching out as far as he can. He barely makes it, quickly snatching a nail and fixing himself back into his previous position, right as the oozing from the sink turns into a regular stream. He clutches the nail tightly in one of his fists, almost afraid that it would disappear.

Reaper returns with a dirty glass of water, floating with whatever sort of grime must’ve been from the pipes. Jack downs it all anyways. When he is finished, Reaper grabs the glass from him and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Now- where were we?”

Jack needs to get Reaper closer. Reluctantly, he raises a welcoming arm to the monster above him. Reaper chuckles darkly and accepts the invitation, lowering himself upon Jack, all the while unzipping his pants.

Wait...

His cock is unsheathed, already hard and at the ready.

Be patient...

He kisses up Jack’s chest, sucking dark bruises onto his light flesh.

A bit closer...!

Without a sound, Jack swings his arm up and sends the sharp end of the nail right into Reapers skull. An airy inhale of surprise is heard from behind the white mask. Reaper attempts to pull back, his body jerking awkwardly, but Jack persists. He stabs him again and again, in and out, harder and harder. Dark blood splatters against his hand. He begins to yell, crazed with the animalistic instinct to survive, to make the man who humiliated him pay. The mouth of the mask bleeds, spitting dark blood onto Jack’s bare chest.

Having been unchained a while ago to allow for some more exciting positions, Jack is able to wriggle out from under the heavy body of Reaper before it collapses on top of him. Without double-checking to make sure he is dead, Jack bolts from the cabin.

Running naked through a forest covered in blood that is not his own is not how Jack expected to spend this weekend. He is stepping on twigs and nettle and whatever terrible things may reside on the forest floor, but Jack is beyond caring. He needs to get as far away from that hut as he can, and then he can formulate a game plan. Coniferous and deciduous branches claw at him as he passes by, stumbling over thick outcrops of roots gnarling out from underneath the soil. The sun is just beginning to set, taking the warmth of the day with it behind the horizon. He does not know what he will do once the sun sets. That is a problem for future Jack.

His breathing becomes haggard as he continues to run. Jack’s stamina has really depleted since he retired from Overwatch. Adrenaline keeps him moving, though, and the fear of what will happen when he stops. When he stops he will have to think. Think about where he’s going, what he will do- and what the fuck happened in that little hunting hut.

Jack glances over his shoulder, stricken with anxiety that the monster named Reaper would be on his tail. There is nothing behind him but thick brush.

Not looking where he is going, Jack fails to notice the steep decline approaching him, camouflaged quite well in the trees. Before he knows it, his feet are taken out from under him and he is tumbling down a small hill- hardly a cliff- barely recognizable in the thick shrubbery. Head over heels he falls, but he doesn’t fall long. Steep as it may be, the drop is a short one. Nonetheless, a cliff is a cliff. Jack makes the mistake of trying to steady his feet before he lands to try and catch himself, his fingers unable to find grip in the dry soil. He lands crookedly on one foot, his body leaning towards the hill where he tried to stop himself. Jack swears he can hear the snap when he makes contact with the ground. He barely yells, thankfully, but the impact is enough to make him sob. He sits on the ground where he landed, cradling his already swollen leg, the appendage already bruising sickly brown and purple.

Broken.

Jack groans audibly, rocking back and forth in a faux attempt to ease the pain. Just his luck.

“Motherfucker!” Jack snarls, fresh salty tears streaming down his grimy cheeks. He must try to move, he needs to find humanity. Alas, even attempting to stand sends pain coursing through his limb. He slams his fist against the ground, sobbing in pain and frustration.

Succumbing to the overwhelmingly negative feelings he had been experiencing as of late, Jack gives up and leans against the crumbling cliff side.

“I’m going to die here.” He says, folding his hands politely in his lap. “What a story. War veteran Jack Morrison found dead in the woods with a broken leg, naked and littered with hickeys. He was eaten by a bear. God rest his soul.”

Jack groans loudly, massaging an aching temple. Talking to himself made him feel better, despite how terrible the things he is saying are.

Jack sighs, “I guess I’ll just wait here.”

And wait he does.

He doesn’t know how long he had been waiting for, but the sun had set and engulfed Jack in darkness. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of branches, made Jack jerk with a start. He nearly dozed off several times, but Jack knew that if he dozed he wouldn’t be able to protect himself from any bears or cougars. Or worse, but Jack wouldn’t think of that. His leg is throbbing now, but the initial brute sting of the break has turned into an irritating ache. He plucks blades of grass and places them over his limp penis. He would have a full-size blanket eventually.

An odd sound breaks the relative silence of the woods. Jack cannot pinpoint the sound, but it is approaching him fast- too fast.

Jack helplessly looks about his surroundings. There is nowhere for him to hide. He cannot flee. Jack is going to die.

It settles around him. A dark mist, nearly black. It’s as if someone set off a smoke machine- but this smoke appears to be moving of its own free will. It curls around Jack and pulls away, circling the ground in front of him. It starts to rise and become thicker from the base upwards. Taller and taller it grows, thicker till it is opaque.

Reaper is in front of Jack, then, blood smeared down the side of his head and staining the stark white of his mask red and black. He looms over Jack, staring down at him soundlessly.

Jack is surprised that he isn’t surprised to see Reaper alive.

“Playtimes over, Jackie.” Reaper says. A clawed hand, the gauntlets put back on, reaches up and takes off the bloody mask.

Jack stares back into the face of Gabriel Reyes, fear sinking into his gut like a weighted stone. He feels sick. He’s going to throw up.

It’s not Gabe. His tanned skin isn’t grey, he doesn’t have a jaw full of fangs, he’s not alive! Gabriel Reyes is dead, just like how the Reaper should be dead back in the hut!

“N-No... no!” Jack screams, his eyes blown as wide as saucers, red tinging the corners of his eyes. His mind moves at a mile per second, trying to assess the figure before him. It can’t be. There is no way in hell-

Before Jack can fight, cry, or even scream, the Reaper- Gabriel Reyes- knocks Jack upside the head hard enough to knock him out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one is gonna be gooooood.


End file.
